


Wing Man

by strangeandcharm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Castiel Whump, Fallen Castiel, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandcharm/pseuds/strangeandcharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/988757">Wings Of Desire</a>, although it can probably be read as a standalone as well, I suppose! </p>
<p>Castiel is left with serious injuries after being captured by demons... injuries the Winchesters may have to take drastic measures to heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wing Man

**Author's Note:**

> Set at the start of season nine, although written before the premiere episode so it now doesn't quite line up with canon!

  
Warnings: Unashamed Castiel-whump that takes turns into quite nasty body horror. Some h/c, too.

 

 

 

Castiel is heavy. By the time Sam has helped to drag the unconscious figure up a flight of stairs and through the building to their car, he's sweating so hard that his t-shirt is soaked completely through. He can't help but wonder if the extra weight comes from Castiel's invisible wings, which seem to be interacting with the world somehow despite the fact that Castiel is supposed to be human now. Of course, Sam can't feel them or see them, so it seems unlikely that they'd have _weight_ , but... who knows?

He's still freaked out about the fact they had to unchain an invisible wing from a wall.

Yeah. Headfuck.

“Has he got rocks down his freakin' pants?” Dean grunts beside him, as they carefully drop Castiel to the ground, leaning him back against the car door. They both straighten up together and draw in a breath in unison, stretching their spines and recovering from the weight.

Dean glances over at Sam and asks, “You okay?”

“Yes!” Sam hisses, then, at his brother's raised eyebrows, he softens his voice to add, “I'm fine.” Dean has been fussing around him so much over the last two weeks that it's starting to annoy him. Sure, he was sick thanks to those pointless damn trials, but he's back to full power now. He's pissed, though. All that pain and all that crap for nothing. He's kind of glad he stopped when he did, but he wasted months trying to slam the door to Hell shut and gave up right when it could have happened. Seems... ridiculous, somehow. Oh, and as an uber kick to the ass, poor Castiel got duped and sealed off _Heaven_ instead. The universe definitely has a sense of humor.

He crouches down to check Castiel's pulse. His friend lies propped up against the car door, eyes closed, his face as pale as snow. There's old blood caked under his nose, a terrific bruise on his left cheek and his arm sits limply in the sling Sam made for him back in the cellar. He looks way thinner than he's ever looked before and badly needs a shave, but the thing that's changed about him the most is his _presence_. It's just not there any more. Castiel had a way of walking into a room – assuming he ever walked into it and didn't just appear – and you'd sense he was on his way before he put one foot inside the door. This guy, this battered, half-starved, broken human just seems... small. It makes something in Sam's throat constrict, and he has to turn away once he drops his fingers from Castiel's neck.

“He still with us?” Dean asks, unlocking the back door of the car and pulling bags off the seat to stow in the trunk. His voice sounds normal, but Sam can hear the worry in it. Dean's trying to play it cool, but he's seriously freaked out right now. Hell, he's not the only one.

“His heart-rate's crazy-fast, but at least it's there,” Sam replies, standing. He stares down at the metal hook dangling off the collar of Castiel's bloodied shirt – the one that's probably still embedded in Castiel's invisible wing – and blows out a breath, totally freaked out. Castiel is human but he's still got his wings. He'd been hanging from hooks and chains in a cellar _by_ those wings. It's so bizarre he can't get his head around it. “Okay, so... How the hell do we get him in the car when we don't know what's going on with his wings?”

Dean slams the trunk and walks back to them, his face determined. “We ask him,” he says, and crouches down beside the car. “Cas? Hey, Cas?” He pats Castiel's face, not giving a damn that he's dead to the world. “Come on, Cas. Wake up. We need you with us. Hey? Castiel!”

Sam's just on the verge of telling his brother to give up and leave the poor bastard alone when Castiel's eyes flutter open. He grimaces, turning away from Dean's palm, hissing out a breath of pain that Sam hopes hasn't been prompted by the wake-up call.

“That's it, dude. Welcome back.” Dean sits back on his heels, pleased, his hand dropping to rest on Castiel's neck.

Castiel's eyes roll before he seems to snap awake a little. It takes a worrying amount of time for him to look around and focus on Dean, and an even more worrying amount of time to open cracked lips to speak. “Water,” he whispers.

Sam rummages in his bag and produces a bottle before Dean can even turn to him. His brother takes it and holds the bottle to Castiel's lips, tilting slowly. It's clear from the way that Castiel drinks that he hasn't had water for a long time; now that Sam is looking closely, he can see how sallow his skin is, how sunken his eyes look. Those bastard demons chained him up, took his feathers and didn't give a shit if he lived or died. Suddenly Sam has an inkling of how time had been running out for their friend, and he feels a rush of relief that they hadn't waited another day to check out those rumors about angel feathers being traded by vampires. They'd almost given it up as a false alarm when they heard the feathers had no angel mojo in them; they could've been chicken feathers, for all anybody could tell. But Dean had a gut feeling, and Sam slowly began to feel it too, and now here they were.

“Thank... you,” Castiel sighs as Dean lowers the bottle. He licks his lips and closes his eyes again, resting his head back on the car with a thump. Dean shakes him a little with the hand on his neck, refusing to let him pass out.

“Come on, Cas. Don't give up on us. We need your help. We can't see your wings but there's a hook in one of them and we need to get it out. And we have no idea how to get you in the car. Can you fold them? Do you even have to, or will you be okay?”

Castiel blinks at him, looking a little confused. There's a pause and then he speaks, his voice fading in and out, croaking from lack of water. “You're so... linear,” he murmurs, eyelids drooping. “All going one... way.”

“What?” Dean stares at him, baffled.

“Single... motion,” mutters Castiel. He sighs, as though everything is just too big for him to comprehend, then winces at the movement.

Sam waves a hand in front of Castiel's face. It takes a moment or two, but dull blue eyes track its progress. “Cas?” Sam asks hopefully.

Castiel's eyes leave his hand and stare up at him. “I... know you.”

“It's Sam. I'm Sam, Castiel. Do you know what's going on?”

“Time... isn't time any more.” Castiel nods, as though he's saying something deeply important, and then a shudder runs through his body. When he looks up again, his eyes seem a little clearer and he finally focuses properly on Dean's face. He frowns. “D-Dean?”

“At last, Space Cadet. You with us?”

Castiel nods again, rather uncertainly.

“Good. Okay, Cas, you gotta tell us what to do with your wings. They're invisible to us. If we put you in the car, will we slam them in the doors or not?”

Castiel blinks. “Metal. Your car is made of... metal. Wings... and metal...” He takes a breath, forehead crinkling. “I think I will need to... fold them inside the car. If I... can...” He looks off to the side, at some empty space where his left wing should be. His eyes widen. “It's broken. Bones... and flesh. That's not right.” He sounds puzzled, rather than pained. Sam assumes he's in shock.

“That's not right at all,” Dean affirms, staring at thin air. “So you can't fold it? We need to get out of here soon, man, in case reinforcements are on the way.”

“I can't fold... them,” Castiel explains, voice weak. “I'm... human. They shouldn't be part of me any... any more. I can't move them like... I used to.”

Dean rubs a hand down his face. “Can we move them for you? Can we even touch them? We need to fix what's broken, too. There must be a way.”

Castiel thinks, then nods slightly. “Yes. There's a spell... the demon used. He had it in... his book... Read it... aloud and you will be able to see my wings when they...” His eyelids droop for a moment. He seems to mentally shake himself before adding, “...ripple. I mean, when the spell... ripples. I think.”

The reply is a bit vague, but Dean's face hardens. “So we need this book? I'll go back and get it. Sam, you get that hook out of his other wing.”

“It's invisible, Dean!” Sam protests, but his brother is already on his feet.

“Maybe he can direct you? I'll be back in a few minutes. You hang on in there, Cas.”

Castiel watches him walk away. “I've... been hanging quite a bit... recently,” he observes, and Sam is surprised to see a small smile lift one side of his mouth.

“Glad to see you have a sense of humor about this, Cas.”

“I'm... human now. Apparently humans... can be funny.” Castiel shivers in what could be pain, sucking in a breath. “I don't feel... very funny, though.”

Sam shifts position, leaning over Castiel's shoulder. The hook is just sitting there, blood-free, looking as innocent as any piece of metal can be. It's hard to believe it's actually jammed through an angel's wing. “So how do I get this out?” he asks. “I can't... I mean, I have no idea where your wing is.”

Castiel tilts his head back, clunking his head on the car again. “You're standing on it.”

Sam looks down at his feet, shocked.

“Don't... worry. I can't feel it. It's not... real to you.”

“Okay. So, uh, how do I remove the hook?”

Castiel tries to twist his head round to see the hook, but can't. “Lift it up.”

Sam obliges, bringing the hook around to the front a little. Castiel's eyes watch as the hook rises in the air, then fall to observe what must be the wing moving under it. Sam is careful and moves it slowly, even though it doesn't feel as though it's carrying anything. It's just an empty hook to him. “Now what?” he asks.

“It is very loose,” Castiel murmurs. He seems to be concentrating hard; sweat runs down his forehead. Sam has no idea if he's concentrating on the hook problem or if he's just trying to stay awake. “I tore... my wing, and the hole is large. I think if you... put it on the ground...”

Sam does so.

“My wing... is flat now. If you move the hook... up... till I say stop...”

Sam moves it slowly, feeling awkward. If only he could see!

“Stop.” Castiel takes a deep breath. “Now pull it backwards, toward... you.”

The hook moves backwards. It's almost on Sam's lap before Castiel lets out a sigh of relief and smiles. “It's gone. Unhooked.”

Sam stares at the hook in his hand and, on impulse, throws it as far across the weed-strewn car lot as he can. It thumps to the ground by the road, but they're on an abandoned industrial estate and nobody is around to see or hear it.

“Better?” Sam asks.

“Better,” Castiel agrees, closing his eyes. Sam is torn between wanting him to rest and keeping him awake, but decides that a few minutes of rest might not hurt. He sits silently as Castiel's face goes slack, his body supported by the side of the Impala, and ponders the sheer weirdness of having just pulled a metal hook out of an invisible angel wing.

 

* * *

 

When Dean returns, he's got an old, leather-bound book in one hand and a bloody demon-killing knife in the other.

“Trouble?” Sam asks.

“Naw, just a demon coward hiding in a closet. He didn't even see me coming.” Dean nods over at Castiel. “How's Captain Hook?”

“Unhooked.” Sam crouches down next to Castiel again. This time he wakens instantly when he's shaken gently, blinking upwards at the Winchesters.

Dean stands at Castiel's feet, looking awkward. “Okay, I got the book. You sure this will work?”

“Will... what work?”

“Come on, Cas keep it together! I read the words in this book and your wings will magically reveal themselves to me. Remember?”

Castiel's eyes widen a little. “Yes. Yes, it will... work.”

“Will it hurt?” Dean asks warily.

There's a pause before Castiel replies, “I don't know. They're... already out. So perhaps not.”

Dean reads from the book. It's Latin mixed in with some Enochian power words that Sam faintly recognizes, although not enough to know what they are. Castiel's eyes drift closed while the words are spoken and he seems to freeze, his breathing slowing down. Sam can't tell if it's the effect of the spell or if he's preparing himself, but either way nothing happens for at least five minutes. Dean keeps glancing up at him over the top of the book, his expression asking, _How long do I have to read this crap for?_ All Sam can do is shrug.

And then, quite suddenly, Dean looks up from the book and jumps backwards in surprise. “Holy shit!”

His eyes trail past Castiel's body and out either side of him, far further than Sam would have supposed. Dean doesn't speak for a while, simply staring, eyes wide and mouth slack; long enough for Sam to start getting impatient. He's just about to say his brother's name when Dean blinks back to himself and hands the book to Sam.

“Here. You better read this. It's, uh, pretty cool. Surprise ending.”

Sam stands, moving to Castiel's feet with the book open before him. Dean leans down and prods at something, then moves back again, staring at his finger. He turns to Sam and grins hugely.

“Wings!” he declares.

“Yeah, I kind of figured, Dean,” Sam almost-smiles, because his brother really does look thrilled.

Dean looks back at Castiel, who seems to be out of it again. Dean's head tilts as he examines the space where the left wing should be; then he tuts. “Wow. They really did a number on this wing. These bones are so big this will be a two-man job to fix. Shit.”

Sam reads the spell aloud, not needing to be told twice. He wants to see the wings too; the fact their friend even has them has always fascinated him, and the most he's ever experienced of them is that tiny, feathery rustling sound every time Castiel pops in and out of a place. He reads the words quickly and fastidiously, staring over at Castiel every time he reaches the end of a line, but it isn't until his throat is dry and his head's starting to hurt from the repetition that _it_ finally happens.

There's a rippling in mid-air, beautiful and strange, and then suddenly two enormous black wings are stretching out either side of Castiel – so long that they span the length of the Impala and beyond. Sam blinks gormlessly, processing, before the surprise dies down enough for him to observe the sight before him rationally. As rationally as you can process a human with gigantic bird wings, that is.

They're so huge it's clear that Castiel will never fit into the car unless they're folded. Both lie limply on the ground, looking lifeless and possibly paralyzed; Castiel himself said he couldn't move them, so perhaps they are. The right wing looks fairly whole, barring a fist-sized tear towards the tip; Sam wonders how it must have felt as he moved it around with the hook, and grimaces on Castiel's behalf. The left wing, however, looks _destroyed_. Dean's still studying it, his expression thunderous yet calculating, but from what Sam can see there's simply no hope. The gigantic wingbone is the width of Sam's thigh and it's been snapped into two bloody pieces; the flesh around it is badly infected, oozing pus. As Sam steps forward he can smell how badly the wounds have festered – he wonders if the wing could even be gangrenous, but it's hard to tell when the whole thing is black skin coated in black feathers. He spares a moment to wonder why he couldn't smell anything before the spell.

Further up the left wing, towards the tip, is another break. The flesh by the wingtip is also in two halves, sliced apart by something. Sam stares for a few moments, perplexed, before he guesses that Castiel must have pulled so hard on the hook to escape that it just ripped his wing in two. Ouch.

“We can fix this,” Dean says, peering at the broken bones in front of him.

“I don't know, man. That looks pretty bad.”

“We can fix this,” Dean says again, slowly and carefully, then shoots him a look. It says, _We're fixing it no matter what, because I'm not gonna let anything this bad happen to family._ Sam knows the look so well that all he can do is nod.

“Okay, so we'll fix it,” he allows, but inside he already knows it's too late. “We can't do it here, though. Help me fold this other wing first.”

Dean joins him and they both stand for a moment, staring down at the wing below them. Sam places a hand on the feather-covered wingbone and almost feels an electrical spark go through him. He's held an angel feather before, but a wing is a different kind of fairy tale. The improbability of this, despite the life he's lived, surrounded by improbable creatures of all kinds, almost makes him light-headed.

“You lift the middle and I'll bend the tip inwards,” Dean instructs him, and Sam carries out the order. The wing is incredibly heavy and he staggers, shocked, then watches in amazement as Dean folds the wingtip into the rest of the wing with surprising ease. Pausing, they take a moment to stare at the half-folded wing in their hands. Then they glance at each other, sharing a moment of weirdness, before they push. The wing folds smoothly against the tattered, bloody shirt on Castiel's back and, bizarrely, becomes almost insignificant, as though it has shrunk out of the way with the movement. There's some kind of magic here that Sam doesn't understand, because the folded wingbones should actually jut out high about Castiel's head. He stares at the too-small wing, stunned, before Dean pats him on the arm.

“That's the easy part,” says his brother, and moves over to the battered left wing.

Castiel barely stirred while they moved his unbroken wing – he seems to be unconscious – but Sam has a feeling this side won't be as easy. He's proved right the moment Dean takes hold of the wingtip and tries to push it inwards. Castiel's eyes snap open and his body arches upwards in pain. He seems too shocked even too make a noise; he just reacts, bending and twisting in agony.

“It's okay, it's okay, we're trying to help,” Sam soothes as Castiel stares around him, frenzied. But his words don't help a bit. Castiel leans sideways, instinctively trying to crawl away from the pain on his one good arm, and Sam has to kneel in front of him to hold him still. Castiel is so weak it isn't difficult, but it's clear he's completely forgotten where he is and what's going on. His eyes are wild and he pants like a dog, shivering and pale. The arm Sam is holding is uncomfortably hot. He's burning up, which isn't a surprise given the enormous infection he's quite literally carrying around.

“This is going to be a bitch,” Dean mutters, still holding the extended wing in his hands. It barely even folded at all, and that's just the tip. Sam has no idea how the broken segments are going to flatten against Castiel's back; from what he can see, they'll just grind against each other. And that will really fucking hurt.

Frustrated, Sam glances at the backseat of the car and tries to figure out some angles in his head. “Perhaps we can slide him into the car back-first and pull the wing in after?” he offers.

“It'll stick out of the window, Sam,” Dean scoffs. “We'll be knocking people off their bikes when we overtake them!”

“No, it won't. It doesn't interact with the world.”

“But it'll stick out ten feet! We can't do that!”

“Then we fold it in ten feet and not an inch more,” Sam says calmly. “Look, we'll never get it flat on his back like the other wing. I say we put him in the car and fold the wing as far as we can while he's in there. There's no point doing it now. We'll only have to lift him up to get him into the car, and it could collapse outwards again.”

Dean squeezes the bridge of his nose, frowning, then nods. “Okay. You grab his good arm. I'll get his legs.”

It's a tough task, but they manage to do exactly what Sam suggests. They slide Castiel into the car so that his back and the already folded wing are leaning on the furthest door, arranging his legs along the seat and bending his knees. He's too dazed and exhausted to complain, but he groans as they have to twist him into the seat. The broken wing trails out of the car, a mess of black, shedding feathers covered in pus. Sam's stomach rolls a little as he brushes past it.

When they stand back, the wing still sticks at least seven or eight feet out of the car. Taking a breath to steady himself, unable to believe that he's really doing this, Sam bends down and places a hand on the tip, then moves his hand further down, past the smaller break. Dean positions himself closer to the other break and holds the huge bones still as Sam lifts the wing and _pushes_.

Castiel screams, slamming his head back against the car door so hard that he shatters the glass in the window. A horrible, disturbing shudder runs up the wing and makes Sam's teeth rattle, but he doesn't stop what he's doing. He pushes until the wing is jammed into the car and then lets go, allowing Dean to slam the door. Inside the car, Castiel screams for a few more seconds before suddenly falling silent. Sam can't see past the feathers covering the window to see why, but when he opens the passenger door and peers into the backseat, he sees that Castiel has slid down the inside of the car and has passed out.

Dean is suddenly leaning over the driver's seat opposite him and has his fingers pressed to Castiel's neck.

“Is he gonna make it all the way to the bunker?” Sam asks, really worried.

Dean leans back and shakes his head. “He's going to have to,” he says simply, and climbs into the car.

 

* * *

 

Getting the apparently comatose Castiel into the bunker and down the staircase is hellish. Earlier Sam had wondered if Castiel weighed so much because he had wings, but now he really is carrying those wings he knows their friend seemed as light as a feather back then. They're awkward, too. The wing already folded into his back isn't a problem, but the broken wing trails behind them as they drag Castiel into the building, snagging on steps and generally being a nuisance. In the end Sam has to lift Castiel into his arms like he's carrying a bride over the threshold so that Dean can walk behind him and carry the wing like a veil.

Sam isn't a weakling but he's still a little frail from the trials and, by the time he gets to the bottom of the stairs, his knees feel as though they're going to pop. How he gets Castiel into one of the spare bedrooms and onto the bed is a blur. He almost collapses onto the bed as well, gasping from the effort, and Dean makes a similar noise as the dumps the heavy wing behind Sam's back.

Castiel lies still, absolutely out of it, chest rising and falling rapidly. He's soaked in sweat, racked with chills that have worsened during their drive. The wing lies limply on the bed beside him and then trails down the side and across the floor, twisting awkwardly with its broken bones. It's almost the same width as the room, and within minutes of them dumping the former angel in there, everything smells of infection and putrescence... the same smell that haunted the car all the way to Lebanon.

Sam watches as Dean grimly collects all their medical kits together and starts unwinding bandages, wondering if he should say something. There's no way, no way at all, that this wing can be saved. From what Sam can gather, Castiel can't even move them anyway. They're dead weight, and the left wing is beyond repair: bones that huge won't knit together naturally. Castiel needs to be healed by another angel, something beyond their ability to achieve. Even the rip through the tip of his wing is dripping dark, fetid blood onto the floor, like fluid seeping from putrid meat.

It's too late to do anything. Dean should be able to see it, but he can't. He wants to save Castiel the angel, but Castiel isn't an angel any more. He's a human, and one who will die unless this infection can be controlled.

“Dean...” Sam says, his voice low with warning.

His brother seems to know exactly what he's going to say and cuts him off before he can say another word. “Open this,” he commands, handing him a bottle of sterile water.

Sam sighs and opens it. He watches as Dean pours the liquid onto a cloth and starts cleaning the jagged, stinking mess around the broken wingbones. After a while his brother peers up at him, silently asking a question. Sam opens his mouth to speak, thinks better of it and picks up a cloth himself.

There's no arguing with Dean when he's like this.

Together they clean up Castiel's wounds. With every movement they make, more feathers drift to the floor or scatter around the mattress. They're oily and unpleasant, as putrid as the body they were attached to.

Castiel doesn't wake up.

 

* * *

 

A day passes, and then a night, and Dean barely sleeps. Sam's too wired to sleep either, but at least he takes a break from that dreadful room with its nasty, cloying smell. He goes out and manages to find serious antibiotics, the kind you administer intravenously, and they set up the bags of fluid around Castiel in what Sam recognizes is a vain hope to treat the infected wing.

Dean attempts to splint the wingbones the morning after they arrive back home. He wanders off into the depths of the bunker and returns with two cricket bats, of all things, and gets a reluctant Sam to hold the wing as straight as he can while he splints the break. It doesn't seem to help things very much, and the bandages Dean has used to bind them in place are soon soaked through with yellow crap, but perhaps it's a psychological attempt by Dean to make the wing look better, if nothing else.

Castiel barely even twitches while it's happening, or when they splint the other broken bones in his wing and his broken arm as well. This, more than anything else, worries Sam to death. Broken bones produce the kind of fundamental, deep-down pain that seeps through you even when you're unconscious. To ignore pain of such magnitude, Castiel must be really sick. When they've finished splinting everything in sight, he and Dean stand back and give each other a look that proves they're each thinking the same thing.

Castiel might not pull through this.

They wait, and he just gets worse. The smell gets worse as well, despite Dean's best efforts to keep the wounds clean and dry. The broken wing is so hot to the touch that it feels like it's on fire. After a day, Castiel's skin feels the same, and he's shuddering and moaning so fiercely that Sam wonders how his heart can take all the stress.

Occasionally Castiel does wake up, and each time he's as delirious as hell.

“The voice is not the same,” he tells them urgently, reaching into the air with his good hand; the other is at the end of a broken arm, and has a splint on his black-and-broken little finger. Dean reaches over and wraps his own hand around Castiel's, holding him still. Castiel turns dazed, unseeing eyes on him. “It's different, it's not the same. I hear animals but I don't hear the voice.”

“It's alright, Cas, you're okay,” Dean says.

“So many animals,” Castiel gasps, and he groans and shivers.

“You're gonna be okay, Cas. You hear me? You're gonna get through this.”

Castiel's eyes flicker closed and he groans, arching his back off the bed as though he's in terrible pain. Dean keeps hold of his hand as he cries out something they don't understand before passing out again.

The next time Castiel wakes up, he grabs Sam's shirt and pulls him down so hard that they gently bump foreheads. Even through his surprise, Sam registers how hot Castiel's skin feels against his.

“He's coming for us,” Castiel hisses. “He's seen us... and he's been brought down to Earth. I need to fly. I need to fly, but... everything's on fire...”

His eyes roll and his hand releases Sam's shirt, falling limply to the bed. Dean leans forward and places a cold cloth on Castiel's forehead, his face impassive.

Sam can only think that Castiel's hot breath on his face had smelled like the wound on his wing.

 

* * *

By the third day, even Dean has to admit that they can't do any more to save the wing. There are barely any feathers left on it; Sam sweeps up piles of greasy, gross feathers from the floor every few hours and burns them outside while he reminds himself that there's a sky out there. The wing underneath them is dark and leathery, like a bat wing, but it's stopped burning up under their touch. It's cold and stinking. Dead. The wing is dead, and it has to come off before the gangrene eats into Castiel's human body.

The second wing isn't doing much better. The infection has somehow spread to it and it's pulsing with fire under their fingers, burning, _wrong._

“We need to cut them off,” Sam tells his brother that night.

Dean is sitting at the table in the main hall, his head in his hands.

“Come on, man. You know we have to. Cas is going to die unless we do it.”

Dean blows a breath out from his nose, the noise surprisingly loud against the table. “What's he going to say to us, Sammy? When he wakes up and finds that we've hacked off his wings?”

“At least he'll have woken up.” Sam sighs. “He's going to die, Dean. Come on. You know it. We have to help him before it's too late, if it isn't already.”

“I can't do it, Sam,” Dean mumbles, looking up at him. His eyes are red and there are black circles under his eyes. He looks almost as bad as Castiel. “I can't do that to him. How could anybody cut off an angel's wings? That's... sacrilege. It's wrong. It's like someone cutting off our arms.”

“I'll do it. I need you to hold him down, but I'll do it.” Sam can't even believe he's saying it, but he knows it has to be said.

Dean shakes his head, leaning back in the chair. He covers his face with his hands for a few moments, takes a deep breath underneath them, and then stands up. “No. I'll do it.”

“Dean...”

“You hold him down. I'll do the wings.” His voice is hard and his expression is determined. There's not an ounce of tiredness or uncertainty there any more. Sam stares at his brother and remembers how he hacked people to pieces in Hell. Of course he thinks this is his job. He's done it before.

“Okay,” Sam says. “But we'd better hurry.”

 

* * *

 

No matter what they do, they can't saw through the bones.

They can cut through the dead flesh surrounding them and Castiel doesn't even bat an eyelid, clearly unable to feel a thing, but once they try to make a mark on those enormous wingbones, nothing works. They try every saw they have, then their biggest knives, and then – out of horror-filled desperation – even a machete, before it sinks in that it's not down to how big the blade is or how sharp the saw is.

These are angel wings. They need something that can actually harm angels to finish the job, and that's an angel blade.

Dean holds the silver knife before him in exasperation, running a finger up the edge of the blade and frowning. “This is crazy.”

“I think it's our only shot, Dean.”

“It's not sharp enough! I can't saw through a bone the width of a tree trunk with a _butter knife!_ ”

On the bed, Castiel jerks as a shudder runs through him. They've rolled him onto his right side, stretching each wing out behind him. His fists are clenched into balls on the sheets and he's panting miserably, breaths wheezing in wet-sounding lungs. The heat that is radiating off his body is phenomenal, and the smell of rotting flesh is so strong that Sam feels nauseous.

“We have to do this, Dean. If it's the only way, then we have no choice.” He moves to kneel by the side of the bed. He places one hand on Castiel's shoulder, avoiding the splint lower down his arm, and places his other hand on his hipbone. Castiel isn't sweating any more and his skin feels too thin to be covering his hips, as though he's made of nothing but bone and willpower. There's barely anything left in him. If they don't finish this soon, he's going to die within hours.

Dean stares at the angel blade a little longer. Then he sighs, closes his eyes, and opens them again. He climbs onto the bed and kneels behind his patient, deliberately placing one knee on Castiel's right wing to keep him from bucking up underneath him. He slides the blade into the tear they've managed to carve in the wing so far, which is as close to Castiel's back as it's possible for it to be without actually touching his skin. There's a long, tension-filled moment as Dean gulps in a breath, and then he starts to saw.

Castiel's eyes snap open and he screams. He thrashes about on the bed, taking both Winchesters by surprise until the shock passes and they lean down on him enough to hold him still; Dean with his knee on the right wing while he saws at the left one, Sam using his upper body to pin Castiel's torso to the bed. Castiel continues to scream, his voice broken and sore. His legs kick around on the mattress, utterly unable to help him gain any leverage because he's so weak and Sam is so heavy. It's almost pitiful how quickly he's subdued, falling still out of sheer exhaustion despite the agony he's in.

“Make sure he doesn't move again!” Dean snaps, sawing away with sweat dripping off his face.

“Stop, please stop!” Castiel croaks, sobbing into Sam's shoulder. “Stop! Stop this, please! It hurts! It _hurts!_ ”

Sam curses his own idiocy. They should have given him an anesthetic, shouldn't they? But then again, Castiel had been so deeply unconscious they'd genuinely thought he wouldn't wake up. And drugs could have weakened him further. But either way, now they're faced with this: Castiel screaming and begging below them as Dean saws and saws, his expression fierce and furious as he does something no human has ever done to an angel before. The grating noise of the blade against the wingbone grows louder as Dean pushes harder, deeper, and Sam finds himself trying to make comforting _shhhhh_ noises into Castiel's ear as the poor bastard shakes and gasps below him.

All he wants now is for Castiel to pass out, but it simply doesn't happen. Castiel begs and pleads with them, his breaths coming in huge, gulping sobs between coughing fits. With impeccable timing, somehow Sam lessens his hold on him and leans back just enough to be out of the way when Castiel retches and pukes down the side of the bed. The stuff that comes out of his stomach is something dark and oily and gross that doesn't smell like vomit, and Sam has to bite his lip and look away because it makes him want to puke, too.

And still Dean saws.

“How far through are you?” Sam asks after what feels like forever has passed, as Castiel sobs and whines into his shoulder like a child.

“Can't... see,” Dean replies, out of breath and deathly focused. “Too... much blood. Or whatever used to be blood. This black stuff... is disgusting.”

“Cas just threw it up, too,” Sam points out, but Dean doesn't look up to see for himself. He simply saws and saws. His arm must be numb by now. Sam has no idea how the blade hasn't slipped out of his sweaty, blood-soaked hand, but it hasn't yet. Dean's gripping it so tightly he must have blisters.

“Please,” Castiel moans. “Please stop... no more... Even the _demons_ didn't go this far...”

That actually makes Dean lose his rhythm, his eyes blinking furiously through the sweat running down his forehead. He recovers quickly, bites his lip and keeps on sawing. Castiel lets out a soft, agonized sound – a whimper that almost breaks Sam's heart – before falling completely still, his eyes sliding shut.

“Finally,” Dean spits.

Sam places shaking fingers on Castiel's neck, following the soft, stuttering beats of his heart desperately.

“Alive?”

“For now,” Sam mutters.

Dean saws, then there's a strange, disgusting _snap_. “Yes!” he cries, as the wing suddenly skews sideways, rolling uselessly across the mattress. It's still held in place by a small strip of flesh, but when Dean cuts through it triumphantly, something totally unexpected happens.

The wing disappears.

Just like that, as though it was never there. The smell of rotting flesh and putrescence vanishes with it. Dean stares down at the blade in his hand, which is shining a beautiful, clean silver. There's not a trace of black, oily blood on it. Sam leans over to look at Castiel's back, stunned to discover that the side the left wing used to curve out from is totally normal-looking. It's just skin and smooth flesh, untouched and virginal.

“Now there's a vanishing act,” Dean says, panting. He grins at Sam, his eyes bright and wild. Then he spasms twice, makes a harsh gagging sound and throws up on the floor, coughing and choking like he's trying to vomit up every ounce of the disgust at what he's just done.

Sam quietly waits for him to recover before saying, “I'll do the other wing. Here, give me the blade.”

“No, I'll do it,” Dean says as he wipes his mouth. He sits on the edge of the bed, shaking, his back to them both.

“Come on, man. Share the load. You must be exhausted.”

“I said I'll do it!” his brother snaps, turning to face him.

Sam isn't cowed by his aggression. “He's my friend too, Dean. This isn't just your responsibility.”

“Just give me a minute.” Dean gets to his feet, wobbles a little and stalks out of the room. Sam doesn't go after him, knowing his brother needs a few moments to himself. He closes his eyes, trying to keep calm, but the room now stinks of puke and Castiel is muttering through his unconsciousness, saying something about Naomi and God that Sam can't understand. He shushes him gently, placing a hand on his friend's burning forehead. Castiel moans, “Dean, _no_...” just as Dean walks back into the room, making both of them wince.

Dean smells of whiskey, but his expression is resolute. “Hold him,” he orders, and climbs back on the bed.

The second wing is, weirdly, more difficult than the first, because the flesh isn't dead and Castiel starts moaning as soon the blade touches his skin. Dean severs nerves and blood vessels as quickly as he can so that he can get to the bone, eliciting the kind of noises from his patient that Sam's fairly certain you usually only hear in Hell. Castiel tries to fight at first, clawing at Sam's arm with his eyes wide with terror and pain, but when the sawing starts in earnest he just seems to fade out, barely even twitching as the blade makes its way through the bone.

There's bright red blood everywhere, spraying Dean's face as he works, but despite the lack of black, rotting, oily blood it's clear the wing still needs to come off because it _smells_ wrong – the same way the other wing smelled when they first saw it. Its feathers are greasy and dissolve under Dean's knees as he leans on them. Sam holds Castiel in place despite his lack of reaction and wonders how these wings must have looked at their full power. Did they shine? Were they beautiful?

“Almost done,” Dean grunts, leaning forward as he saws. He's breathing hard and absolutely drenched in sweat, like he's just run a marathon.

When the wing snaps, Castiel makes a soft sighing noise that almost sounds like relief. The same thing happens as before: the wing falls sideways, Dean cuts the final strip of flesh and nerves and then everything simply disappears. Castiel is lying on his side on bedsheets completely free of blood, pus and oily putrescence, as clean and smooth-backed as any other human being. He's fully human again.

Dean rolls off the bed and stands up, swaying. He drops the clean, shining angel blade to the floor and simply stares at Castiel, his hands shaking. He looks utterly sickened but doesn't seem to want to throw up this time.

Sam is about to stand too when he feels something happening under his palms: Castiel's dry, burning skin suddenly cools, so quickly he thinks he must be imagining it. In the blink of an eye there's sweat everywhere, pouring off Castiel as though someone's doused him in water. Even Dean, dazed as he is, can't tear his eyes away as their friend's skin changes from a deathly gray color to something approaching normal.

It's a shocking change, but Sam can't stop a smile from forming as he realizes what it means. “His fever's broken. I think it worked, Dean. I think it worked!”

Dean nods, still swaying a little. Sam comes to stand by his side and takes his arm. “Come on, man. You need a shower and you need sleep. I'll look after him now.”

Dean takes a few steps towards the door before stopping and turning back. “Nothing happened,” he says, voice hoarse. He seems shellshocked.

“Nothing happened? What the fuck, dude. Look at him!”

“I thought... you slice off an angel's wings, some bell's gonna ring somewhere, y'know? Some archangel's gonna come and kick my ass. But we're still here. I don't get it.”

Sam looks back at Castiel and sighs. “He's not an angel any more, Dean. The wings didn't matter. Hell, _he_ doesn't matter.” He pats his brother on the shoulder. “And all the angels are on Earth now anyway. They've got more important things to worry about.”

“Guess so,” Dean says, his face blank. He lets his little brother lead him out of the room.

 

* * *

 

Castiel sleeps right through until Dean wakes up the next morning, which is pretty much the same time as when Sam runs out of adrenaline and desperately needs to hit the sack himself. It's a good, solid sleep this time, the kind that isn't accompanied by groans or shivering fits. Although he's still a little pale, Castiel's skin color has returned to almost normal and it seems the fever is completely gone because he's cool to the touch. Looking at him now, without those horrible, injured wings dragging him down, he's just a guy who's had his arm broken and his ribs bruised from what looks like a pretty powerful punch or kick. He's got a cut lip and a broken finger as well, but that's it. A few good meals, some hydration and rest and he'll be up on his feet again. It's such a contrast to the previous night that Sam can barely believe it.

The bedsheets are still soaked through with sweat and Sam can't change them until Castiel wakes up, but it seems such a tiny thing to worry about that it almost makes him laugh. He does wonder if all that other gunk and crap is still there somehow, soaking into the cotton unseen by human eyes, and resolves to throw away everything on the bed as soon as he can.

One thing that is very real is Dean's puke, which Sam cleans up with his t-shirt pulled up over his nose. It seems to be mostly alcohol rather than food, though, not that this surprises him at all.

“How's he doin'?” Dean asks when he finally wanders into the room, his hair mussed by the pillow and his eyes blinking sleepily at the scene before him.

“Like a whole new man. He's good,” Sam replies from his seat by the bed. He'd been browsing the net looking for their next case, although it'll be a few days yet before he thinks Castiel can be left alone. Pays to think ahead, though.

Dean pads over and crouches by the bed, staring at Castiel's slumbering face as though he doesn't believe what his brother's just told him. He reaches out and places a hand on one bare shoulder, judging his temperature. “Wow. He feels great.”

“You copping a feel or something?”

Dean twists round and glares at him. When he turns back to the bed, Castiel's eyes are open and staring at them both.

“Hey!” Dean blurts out, delighted, before self-consciousness sets in and he removes his hand from Castiel's skin. “How you feeling, Cas?”

Castiel's eyes are red and a little unfocused as he looks at Dean. “I'm alive,” he says, voice rough and croaky.

It's such an obvious statement that it makes Sam smile, although he hides it quickly. They still have no idea how Castiel will react to having his wings hacked off his body. That's gotta be a shock for anyone.

“Yeah, you are,” Dean tells him, and seems to reconsider his earlier embarrassment; he puts his hand back on Castiel's shoulder, this time comfortingly. “Things got pretty bad there for a while, but you're here now.”

Castiel's eyes dart from Dean's face to Sam and back again. “You cut off my wings.”

There's an awkward silence before Dean tells him, “I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Cas. You were dying and they were killing you.”

Castiel regards him seriously before rolling onto his back, hissing in a breath as he pulls at injured ribs. His face is unreadable. Dean remains crouched by the bed, nervous, and Sam almost holds his breath.

“They weren't part of me any more,” Castiel says, after a few moments. “I'm glad they're gone.” He turns his head to look at Dean, whose face is a mask of worry. “It must have been hard on you, doing that. I'm sorry you had to go through it.”

Dean looks incredulous. “You're apologizing to _me_? Really?”

“Yes.” Castiel reaches out a hand and places a palm on Dean's cheek. It's a remarkably intimate move from the guy they're both used to being so distant with them, and it makes Sam's eyebrows rise all the way up. “Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says slowly and firmly. “I was in pain.”

“You're welcome.” Dean smiles slightly, still sounding a little unconvinced.

Castiel's gaze falls on Sam. “You rescued me from that room... How did you find me? I don't understand.”

Sam spends a few minutes explaining how they followed leads to the feathers and figured out that they were Castiel's, then tracked him down to the warehouse. The whole time Castiel's palm remains on Dean's cheek. Dean doesn't move away or duck out from under the hand; he simply lowers his head, staring at the floor by the side of the bed. Eventually Sam realizes, probably far more slowly than he should have done, that Dean is attempting to hold himself together. He's trying not to cry.

Getting forgiveness from an angel for cutting off his wings... well, that's pretty huge.

“I am very glad that you found me,” Castiel says rather unnecessarily, once Sam has stopped talking.

“I just wish we'd arrived sooner,” Sam observes, shutting his laptop and leaning forward in his chair. “I'm sorry we didn't. That you had to go through all this.”

“Why are you both apologizing? None of this was your fault.” Castiel sounds genuinely puzzled.

“We killed all the demons we saw,” Dean points out, lifting his head at last.

Castiel finally drops his hand from Dean's face and turns to look at him. “There were buyers. Vampires. Witches. Some old gods, none of them powerful. They treated me like I was...” He stops and thinks about it, then finishes, “Like I was something on display in a store. It was humiliating.”

“Joke's on them, huh? Your feathers had no magic and didn't do anything.” Dean clearly says it without thinking, then stops himself. Kind of awkward, insulting your friend's body parts.

“Crowley really wasn't happy,” Castiel agrees, and to their amazement he actually smiles. He looks tired and pale, bruised and sore, but most of all... the smile makes him look human. It lights up his entire face. Sam hasn't seen him smile properly since back when he'd been crazy Castiel, rambling on about flora and fauna and failing to understand reality. This Castiel has been through a lot since then.

“I'll bet he wasn't,” Dean says, but he doesn't smile back. This time it's him who reaches out the hand and rests a palm on Castiel's face, cupping his cheek gently before patting it. “I'm glad you're okay, Cas. And that you're home now.”

“Home,” repeats Castiel, but he doesn't look around the room. He simply stares at Dean. “What's the expression you have about...” He pauses, frowning. “I don't remember it. I'm sorry, I'm too tired.”

“Home is where the heart is,” Sam supplies helpfully, rising to his feet. He squeezes his brother's shoulder as he moves by him, then pats Castiel's leg as he passes him, too. “I need sleep. I'll leave you guys to catch up.”

It's not until Sam looks back at the sight of Dean still crouching by the bed, his hand pressed against Castiel's cheek as they stare at each other, that he suddenly realizes something pretty fundamental: Castiel's heart, as soppy as it sounds, has always been with Dean. So he really is home.

Sam gazes at them for a moment, thinking way too hard for guy who hasn't slept in three days, then shakes his head and goes off to have a well-earned shower.

 

* * *


End file.
